The Collector
by soviet-chan
Summary: The winter has been eerily still for Russia and his housekeepers. All four men know that it is most calm before a storm...and Russia has a tendency to storm rather violently. [Short chapter format, violence, yaoi, dubcon, and angst. RusLiet.]
1. One

**Title: The Collector**

**Pairing: RusLiet**

**Rating: A strong M**

**Warnings: Dubcon, violence, yaoi, angst, plotlessness emotion**

**Notes: There can never be enough RusLiet in my life ~ ^^' Chapter updates may or may not be slow. I enjoy short chapter format, so you'll get it in bitesize pieces. I hope you enjoy it!**

Russia was a collector. On his bleak desk by the window, he would methodically count the Soviet-era watches in small black boxes. To the sound of radio static, he would recount years of chess and literature. He would probe his mind, searching out faint memories of nights wasted alone, burning frigid winters away into bottles of expensive vodka.  
Visitors were infrequent nowadays and behind the doorbell, the skeletal face of poverty would usually face him; hungry beggars or cheap whores looking for food or shelter.

The season was hard to stand. Work was busy and many important powers seemed poised against Russia; if not in policy, than at least in spirit. Past months had been slow and he had been aloof, almost antisocial. He fought to keep his cover of innocence. The depression was a building pressure. Everyone knew an eruption was coming. Russia's housekeepers flinched as he walked by. He had a tendency of abuse towards them and the silence was unsettling. Any day now.

Estonia sipped at a cup of bitter lemon tea. He was propped up in the huge bed that he shared with his brothers. Outside, the gray morning clouds offered a gap for sunlight. He had removed the curtains for the narrow window, milking the rays into the room.  
Flipping through the pages in his news paper, Estonia couldn't help but grimace. He pushed his glasses back onto his nose and dropped it in disgust. The news was so skewed and censored by Russia that reality was impossible to interpret. There was no forecast on his mood or their fate. He glanced to his right where his brothers lay, asleep. Both young men were shirtless, scarred and thin. Lithuania's arm was wrapped protectively around Latvia. They all knew separately that it was futile.

Lithuania was the one who needed protecting. He was Russia's trophy and clear favorite, his shoulder blades rippling with burn marks. Nothing could get between them without being brutally murdered and Lithuania never asked his brothers to try. Recently, sleep was security. The sun stroked his scars with it's healing hands. Lithuania stirred. He sensed it. The creak of heavy footsteps on the hardwood.  
"Get up!" Estonia whispered frantically to his brothers, shaking them softly, "Get-"

The door swung open.


	2. Two

**Notes: Growing up in a household of Russian immigrants can do good things for you when writing Hetalia fanfiction. 'Petitchka' is a common term of endearment, literally "little bird" but more synonymous to "sweetheart". It was slightly awkward to use between Russia and Lithuania because it reminds me of my grandparents...TMI. In other news, I have too much fun instilling fear in the Baltic states. o_o**

Russia marched into the room, surveying the scene through narrow violet eyes. He smiled brightly at Estonia who scrambled to his feet, bowing.  
"Good morning, Mister Russia. What can I do for you, sir?"  
He ignored the question, leaning against the wall comfortably and turned his head to look at the sleeping brothers.

Estonia could have sworn he saw a warm smile spread across Russia's lips; A bittersweet light in his eyes. Human pain. Human love. A sense of pity or shame...  
No, it must have been the hazy sun. Russia's smile was mocking and cruel. He stood silently, listening to even breath. Then, he nodded at Estonia. "Wake the lazy bastards."

"B-brothers..." Estonia started, but Russia brushed by him in annoyance.

The hard slap of Russia's gloved hand shocked Lithuania so much that he yelled out. Another, even harder slap collided with his jaw. Clouded green eyes opened slowly and he started. Latvia crawled across the bed and Lithuania sat up, shaking. Again, Russia's fingertips landed on Lithuania's face, but this time in a gentle caress.

"Petitchka," he crooned, "my gentle sleeping beauty." He removed his own gloved and cupped Lithuania's face in his large palm. Estonia, face obscured by his mug, closed his eyes. Latvia shivered into his bedsheets.

The stillness of the past few months was ending and the storm was brewing again behind Russia's eyes.


End file.
